Feast or Famine
by Anora Snow
Summary: The Hunger Games, written from Clove's perspective.


CHAPTER 1

First, comes consciousness. My breathing changes, but only slightly. I keep my eyes closed and let my senses come to life one by one. I feel the hard bed underneath me. I feel the coldness of my one room stone house. I hear nothing but stillness around me and a bold chirp or two from outside. I am careful not to move or give away any sign that I am awake.

I open my eyes. Not slowly as if I am luxuriously crawling out of bed, but in a quick, green flash. My eyes dart around the room; trained, practiced and keen. I see no sign that anything is amiss. The light in the room is dimmer than dim but my eyes adjust quickly. I breathe an internal sigh of relief and note nothing but the four corners of my room. Well made stone walls, roughened by the years, a hard off-white pallet for my bed, a heavy, wooden door and a window that is really just a hole near the top of one wall, crowded by the stones around it. Through it, I can see the grass outside and the trees in the distance, leaves blowing gently in the moonlight. I allow myself a small smile, confident in my abilities.

Today is the day: Reaping Day. Today is the day I have been training for my entire life. Today I fulfill my destiny. A Cheshire grin consumes my face. The reaping isn't until noon, still plenty of time to get a good workout in. I think about the children in other districts, how afraid they must be, and laugh quietly to myself. If they think they're afraid now, just wait until they see us.

I stand up, my feet hitting the cold, unfinished floor. It too is made of stonework, though I imagine that the stones were once much smoother and better aligned than they are now. Years of use and earthquakes has made them hazardous. I stand on my tip toes and my fingers touch the thatch ceiling, pulling up to a marvelous stretch. The ceiling is low and oppressive even to me, though I am quite a bit shorter than the rest of the academy trainees. I pull on my normal grey thick tights and fitted blue tunic over my petite, lithe frame and slide my feet into brown leather, knee length boots, well worn from years of training. The academy gave me a new pair, but they remain in the corner, untouched. These are like old friends. I put on my grey jacket with the knives inside it and tie it around my waist. The weight of the daggers against my rib cage feels like home. Deftly I pull my mousy brown hair into a ponytail and walk over to my water basin. In the reflection I see a plain girl, with a long scar, running vertically down my face through my left eyebrow. I suppress a bout of nausea. I can't get used to it. I shatter the reflection and splash frigid water on my pale face, the water cooled in the night by the low temperature of the mountain air. It gets chilly here at night, even in the warmer months.

I open the door slowly, cautiously and peek outside when it is open just a crack. The coast is clear. The sky is still midnight blue with barely a hint of light forming in the east. Quiet as a kitten I slink out of my room and make a mad dash across the open slope for the trees at the edge of the forest just a hundred meters away. I park myself behind a big oak and wait. I listen to and absorb even the softest sounds around me. I look through the woods in front of me furtively, no movements other than the breeze rustling the leaves of my forest. I know where my path trails off to the left up the mountain, but I can't see it from here.

My home in district two is set high above the rest of the town, which fills a valley. We are on the mountain slope, rather high with nothing but a few low, stonework buildings around us. There are six stone huts in a circle. One has been my home for the last year. They are all the same. The older we get, the higher up the mountain we move. I suppose they want us to get used to the altitude, or the isolation; probably the latter. Being in the oldest class I live just half a mile from the summit of Pike Mountain and miles from the Academy itself, if you stay on the marked paths.

When I was younger I hiked up to the top of this mountain with my father once. My sister, Clare refused to come. She was always such a homebody. Dad was proud of me, his little fighter. You're not supposed to be on academy grounds unless you belong to the academy, but dad hiked me up here just the same. Visitors are not allowed as they are likely to get hit with an arrow, or a dagger. We have a lot of . . . practice fights up here, to prepare us. In retrospect, it probably wasn't a safe hike to be on. But my father was a victor, and I always felt safe with him by my side.

A door swings open, and softly closes. I immediately come to full attention. There are butterflies in my stomach and giggles threaten to burst to the surface, but I learned long ago how to keep them inside in order to remain stealthy. It's him. I can't believe he isn't quieter. He's got to be more careful. He's never at his best in the morning though. I risk a quick peek around my tree and spot him. He is tall, strong and well-muscled. Light colored stubble grows on his strong jaw-line and his bright blue eyes shine even from here. His blonde hair has grown out a bit and the breeze ruffles his hair. He's wearing the same grey and blue tunic and pants combination that I am, but his are cut to a masculine fit.

He looks around, for me, I know and finding me lacking sits down on the grass, leans against the outside wall of my hut and closes his eyes, his head resting comfortably to the side on a wooden post that used to be part of a fence. He looks peaceful like this, just a boy almost. He's only eighteen, but Cato hasn't been a boy in a long time. His face is slack, the lines of stress and irritability not carved into his brow like they are while he wakes. I suspect not for the first time that the academy feeds us something that makes us this way, stressed and irritable. Sure, the training hardens us, but our emotions are mercurial. We can switch from happy and content to furious is a moment. It helps, when we need to be at our best, but it makes us more than a little unstable. _He better get used to sleeping with one eye open. We can't have any more of this, _I think to myself, my levity from moments ago draining out through my toes.

I reach into my jacket and pull out the small knife closest to my reach. My father made these for me years ago, when I first showed skill in knife throwing at age six. He taught me everything he could, but knives were my favorite. They are a beautifully designed series of daggers ranging in size, each with leaf and vine designs woven into the metal and my initials CB are engraved in the finest metalwork. Each knife is the perfect weight in my hands, smooth and cool. Leaning back against the tree I let my mind go blank. I become a vessel for the sounds around me, intensely aware of every aspect of my surroundings: from the blades of grass below my feet to the brave little lark two trees to my left. In one smooth movement I turn, reach my arm smoothly back and let the knife fly right to its target, the wooden beam exactly one inch from Cato's head. I furtively dash back behind the tree.

Cato's blue eyes fly open and he rolls to the ground in a practiced, graceful move. "Oh someone. Is. In. Trouble," he growls. I can't help it; a smile breaks across my face. I take another peek around the tree. His eyes lock directly onto me and they are not amused. My eyes widen with fear as the smile drops off my face. My fear is part real, part play and all thrilling.

I turn away from him and run into the woods. We are on my favorite path and being a born runner I have a massive advantage, as well as the distance I've already got on him. The path is small, rocky and not well kept. My feet nimbly find the right footing on the ground, a new coat of dirt clings to my boots. Someone who doesn't know the path might not even know it's here. The trees are dense around me but the dawn has begun to peak through their leaves anyway. I pass the spot I saw earlier in the distance and turn to my left and begin winding my way up the switchbacks. I crave the uphill. No one can match me. I'm not the best at flatland sprinting, but I've got endurance and speed to outlast and outpace anyone for miles up a mountain. I calm my breathing enough to listen to the sounds behind me. With his bulk he can't hide the sounds of his movements like I can. He is still quite a ways behind me, but closer than I would like.

I run and fly and gallop my way up the mountain, branches encroaching on my path, whipping my face when I'm not careful. The wind had become stronger, but I couldn't care less. I am part of the mountain, part of nature; more predator than mere human. My movements are graceful and feline like the mountain lions that live here. I feel the cold morning air burning in my lungs. There is nothing as invigorating as being chased or hunting others down. Pure endorphins are running through my veins and arteries, electrifying and life affirming. I listen again. I can't hear Cato's telltale footfall.

I pick my hiding spot off to the downhill side of the switchback, carefully stepping through the floor fauna and crouch down behind it, waiting for my prey. I can't see the lower path through the woods, so I know Cato won't be able to see me. The forest is calm behind me. Dawn is in full force and I can see the bright pinpoint of the sun sending its rays through the woods. The birds are getting louder, and the world is rapidly painted in the rose and golden hues of a clear sunrise. Five minutes pass. I still can't hear him. He can't be that far behind, can he? Or maybe I'm just faster than even I think I am. The silence creeps by, second by second until I finally stand up and turn around to take a look down through the trees. My heart stops. Not four feet away Cato's eyes are shooting lasers directly at me. I can't fathom how he snuck up on me.

"Good morning, honey," I say in my sweetest, most innocent voice. Cato is neither fooled nor mollified. He looks at me, his blue eyes darkening like a storm at sea. There's no way I can escape him from here. My only choice – surrender. He walks over to me, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He spins me around to face away from him and grabs both of my skinny wrists in his large hand and pins them over my head as he presses my hips back into the hard wood of the tree with his. I can feel my skin flushing, still warm from the run but also warm from Cato.

"Looks like someone needs a lesson in appropriate behavior," he growls in my ear, low and fierce. My mouth turns into cotton and my breathing stops.

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, Cato. Also, this is hardly fair play," I say, my words coming out higher pitched and breathier than I would like.

"You know what they say. If you find yourself in a fair fight, your tactics suck." His voice is low, and smooth as silk. Holding me flush against the tree he kisses along my jaw line and down my neck. This is a game Cato and I have been playing for years, since we first entered into the academy at age eleven. It started with him pulling my hair, making fun of me, chasing me and wrestling me to the ground. It turned into more in our fourth year.

"Cato. Stop. I can't do this anymore. I can't have any weakness while we're in there, not even with you."

"Oh, please. If this is what gets you killed you're in serious trouble. What? Worried that I might get you too excited and your heart will just stop? You'd have to have some pretty serious heart issues if that's your undoing. Or perhaps I'm just that good?" Cato adopts his most wolfish grin. "I can just see it now. Cato Arnost, winner of the 74th hunger games. What is his secret weapon, you ask? His dashing good looks – they caused all the women swoon to death," Cato mimics Caesar Flickerman, host of the Hunger Games. He spins me around to face him.

"Only one of us can come back Cato, please stop." He puts my arms down and steps back, shocked to see my eyes wet with tears. I quickly turn away from him, embarrassed. He is the only person that I've ever shown weakness in front of since entering The Academy, and even with him I could count the number of times on one hand.

"Too bad it's going to be me, kiddo. I don't think the district is big enough for the ego you'd have if you came back." He surprises me by spinning me back around and grabbing me around my mid-thighs, throwing me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. My stomach lurches, thinking that the move will send us both head over heels down through the thicket, but Cato remains steady.

"I hope you don't think that getting overwhelmed by emotion for me is going to make me forget your antics this morning. That was a fucking pleasant way to be woken up, you little imp. You're lucky it's today or you would get a lot worse." Cato regains the path, and strolls up the trail, my weight not bothering him in the slightest. I punch his back and kick my legs as best as I can, spitting venom. "Go ahead, kick and struggle all you want. While completely ineffectual, it is just so cute." I can hear the self-assured smile on his smug face.

"I. Am. NOT. CUTE!" I roar in my most fierce voice, but it comes out far higher pitched and whiny than I would have liked.

"You are when you can't reach your little toys."

"Oh you just wait until I – "

"Until you what, little doll? Why would I ever put you down or trust you to run free again? Maybe I should just tie you up and leave you here so you can't volunteer," I can hear the smirk in his voice. With that he flips my legs over the back of his shoulder entirely and I go tumbling head over heels down the slope behind him, somersaulting. I quickly gain my bearings and roll out of the somersault onto my feet and growl at him as I do.

Cato turns and raises his eyebrow at me, "I dare you to pull that shit again." I drop my arm and scowl at him; tucking the knife I had adroitly grabbed mid-roll back into my vest. I run at him and jump onto his back, trying to tackle him to the ground. Unfortunately my 120 lbs don't have the force to bring his 200 lbs crumbling to the ground with ease. If only my will were sheer muscle. Cato laughs and grabs my arms. I finally give up and just wrap my legs around him, getting a piggyback ride up to the summit of the mountain, leaving the trees behind us. "Now, can you stop attacking me so we can enjoy some breakfast? I brought your favorite." I laugh. My favorite. We have rather limited diet options at the academy. At home we were well taken care of, as both of us have victors in the family. The academy believes that indulging in food is a weakness. We're given enough protein to build muscle and keep our energy up, but it never tastes good enough to really enjoy it.

He puts me down and we both take a seat on a fallen log. There are a circle of them around a fire pit ringed with stones. The grass is dull colored and dry, but is peppered with wild flowers. Different groups of trainees are sent up here to keep watch, when the Capitol tells us to.

The view of the valley below is breathtaking, surrounded by mountains on all sides. A river runs around the basin, encircling the downtown and residential portions of District Two, separating us from them. I can see all of the little buildings from here, though they blend together. Some very rich homes, rather, small fortresses are built on the sides of the mountains that cradle the valley. I can see my family home among them, a toy bastion from here, built on an outcropping over the river, on the mountainside of the bank. The poorer people live in huts like mine, most with whole families living in just one room. As you approach the center, the stone homes get taller, smoother and better designed. The academy complex peeks out of the trees about halfway down the slope from where we sit.

Behind me the mountains continue far off into the distance, thick with pine trees, with a river running in the central valley. Our district is not fenced in, it doesn't need to be. We are surrounded by hundreds of miles of woods, with wolves howling at night and other creatures lurking in the deep. A few take the chance and venture out into the woods, but they do not come back. Our elderly go into the woods to die, leaving the world in a more dignified way than crippled in their beds.

Cato has brought the usual: protein bars that taste like chalk, stale bread and a thermos of "coffee" in his rucksack. Coffee means coffee flavored whey protein shake, though it probably is hopped up some kind of upper. He carefully hands over exactly half the bread and one protein bar to me. He used to hand over less, saying that as long as I was half his size I only get half as much as he does. That didn't sit well with me. I get especially vicious when I don't get my fair share. We both chew on our tasteless breakfast, enjoying the view of the sun rising over the mountains in the distance.

"Are you nervous?" Cato asks.

"Of course not. I'm a natural-born champion," I say, mid chew. I narrow my eyes at him, daring him to challenge my words. If my eyes could shoot real daggers as accurately as my hands I would be unbeatable, even against him.

He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, and Little Miss Champion just got her ass snuck up on, captured and dumped unceremoniously down a mountain."

"Well I wouldn't have if I had just stuck my dagger in the giant oaf's forehead to begin with."

"Too bad your aim sucks." Cato smirks. My eyes threaten to pop out of my head with anger. Fast as lightning I whisk my knife set out and throw a series of eight into a tree 50 meters away; straight in a line down the trunk, each a couple of inches apart. I run and pull them out, storing them in my vest and run back to Cato, triumphant.

I straighten up a little and raise one eyebrow at Cato, "You were saying?"

"Just teasing you, little imp." Cato pushes a few strands of chestnut hair behind my ear. "You are adorable when you get all riled up."

I frown; "I'm not riled. And I'm not adorable." I almost go off on him for calling me both riled and adorable, but think better of it. I sigh, "I'm just…ready. I better get to volunteer. It's my last year. If I'm not a victor, what am I? A fucking peacekeeper? Get shipped off to some shitty district while some little bitch steals my glory. I'll lose it Cato."

"You'll get it. We'll both get it. It's our turn. We've trained for this. I mean, come on, they want a champion, don't they? Although, it's too bad that the winners get sent right off. In the olden days we could have just taken care of it." His eyes twinkle and he winks at me.

"Yeah, fucking Enobaria. She just had to go and slit that girl's throat and make it obvious and ruin it for the rest of us. Who plaits their teeth in gold anyway? She is so out of touch, she's just the Capitol's pet snake."

"You better change that attitude. She's about to be your only link to sponsors." Swallowing the last of his bread Cato stands up and offers me his hand, "Come on little imp, let's go. You wouldn't want to be late. You'll need plenty of time to put on a frilly dress and curl your hair. Cato's voice rises into near baby talk at the end and he pinches my cheeks like an annoying aunt.

I roll my eyes and stomp away from him, jogging back down the trail. "I'll meet you at your house after I visit my family," he calls at me.

"Fine!" I yell back.

Cato must not think I can hear him when he watches me go and says, "When she runs, she flies. Beautiful girl," he then tears off after me. I don't slow down. There is a lump in my throat and tears are filling my eyes. I can't imagine losing him. My subconscious sneaks in, _Maybe I won't have to, maybe I will be lost instead. As long as we can go together we'll have weeks more together. That's almost an eternity. _

I run and don't look back until I get to my family home. I haven't lived here in seven years, but I still have to come home for the occasional holiday. It is imposing, at least ten times as tall as my stone hut, and made of some synthetic material I can't name, painted to look like stonework. There are turrets, big windows paned with glass, a material imported from one of the other districts, I assume. There are even slate tiles on the roof, a luxury 99% of District Two could not afford. Walking into this plastic citadel of a house always puts me in a terrible mood. The luxury and sense of entitlement it speaks of are repulsive to me. I never could stand my mother, and my sister is her carbon copy. I take a deep breath and try to control the thick, black poison of loathing that is creeping up my spinal column and spreading to the tips of my fingers.

I pull open the large oaken door, with the silvered, ornate handle and step inside. There is a narrow hallway upon entry that opens up into a large, lavish hall of a room. There are large windows on either side, half viewing the woods on the slope in the distance, the other half overlooking the river and the valley aside it. I used to like this room. It used to be sparsely decorated, with plenty of room to run around and play in, natural light filtering in. Now there are electric lights everywhere, it is overcrowded with padded furniture covered with silks and satins and pillows made of lace. There are objects littering the various desks, dressers and tables, all gold, ivory and bejeweled, none of it especially well crafted. None of it seems to fit together; it is all just there gratuitously.

I see my sister in the midst of it all, curled up in an old, brown leather chair. It doesn't fit with the rest of the pieces, even loosely. It was my father's. He would sit there and read me stories of epic heroes in the olden days, before the nation Panem arose from the ashes of was even a thought in anyone's mind. I begged Catherine to let me take it with me to the academy. We were allowed to bring one thing from home with us, one thing to bring us comfort in the Spartan years to come. She wouldn't hear of it. "Everything in this home is mine, Clove. Your father left it to me. I wouldn't want to send it with you to get destroyed. Besides, Clare likes it."

Seeing Clare on the one thing in this house that means something to me brings the black poison bubbling to my brain. I cross the expansive room to stand directly in front of her. "Move, you're in my seat," I snarl at my little half-sister. Clare is blonde, sixteen, bookish and thin without any muscle tone to speak of. She is draped in a gown of blue silk that is too big for her. She doesn't even look up at me.

"I'm reading, and you haven't sat here for years. You've been at your ridiculous academy. Bug off." Clare stares down at her leather bound book, clearly waiting for me to walk away. I just stand there, baffled by her reaction to my order. Kids younger than me at the academy haven't challenged me in years. _Clare is different_, I tell myself. _She's not academy._ _She's not strong like they are, but hell if she's going to disobey me. Not today. Not on my day. _Clare looks up at me over the lenses of her glasses and raises her carefully arched eyebrows expectantly.

I fight to keep my anger in control. My voice lowers and hits a dangerous note. "Move. Now."

"No. Thanks. Bug. Off," She responds in a mocking tone. She doesn't have time to think about moving as I leap on top of her on the chair and grab her arms, holding her down. She claws and scratches but doesn't have the strength to put up much of a fight. I grab the book out of her hands and tear it in two, binding and all, straight down the middle. "Why would you do that?" Clare screams at me, petulantly, "What is wrong with you? You are insane! Get off of me!"

"I am not insane! You little bitch. You think you're above me? You think you're better than me? No one at the academy has even dared to look at me the wrong way for three years. Today? You are going to challenge me today? When I am trying to earn our family another victory? What have you done for us? Sat around and kept your golden hair curled and your weak body well dressed from the glory father left us? Gotten lazy on someone else's winnings. Does that make you feel good, little girl?"

Clare blanches, noting the manic, wild look in my eyes. This is new for her, I remind myself. My hand is just itching to break her glasses in half. It has driven me insane to see my petty, pretty step-mother and half-sister living off of the Capitol's good graces because of my father's courage, never lifting a finger to better his name. I have always hated it, but the academy has trained me loath it. I will not tolerate weakness: not in myself, not in others. Clare finally looks as frightened as she should, "I… I'm sorry Clove. I'll go," she whispers carefully, cautiously.

"Yes, you will. And yes, you are sorry, you pathetic, weak runt." I reel myself back in taking deep breaths like they taught me and step back from my little sister, letting her escape. Clare suppresses her tears and runs from the room, a sob or two escaping.

My father was Brutus Black, winner of the 53rd hunger games. He always said that his Hunger Games was the only one that really counted. We used to watch the games together when I was younger and he would tell me how easy these soft, weak tributes really have it. He won his games by fighting to death in an underground cave system. A quarter of the tributes got stuck in small, tight spaces, their faces gnawed off by muttations. It was considered highly entertaining, and very brutal. My dad won because he was the most patient. He would lay in wait, lure tributes in with food or water and shoot them with an arrow when they got too close. I did not inherit his patience.

When he came home the Capitol gave him a new house, unnecessarily huge and disingenuous. He had always wanted to build his own. He was excellent at stone work; he even helped build some of the academy huts trainees live at now while he was attending. The Capitol told him he must live in the house they gave him. It broke his heart, living in this hollow building.

He loved a girl from one of the poorer areas on the outskirts of town, Elena, but the Capitol wouldn't allow him to marry her. I went to visit Elena's parents once, searching for her, in a way. They told me that she had long, thick, luxurious auburn hair, smiling almond eyes, a warm smile and was always laughing. They told me how she and my father used to sneak away into the woods for days at a time. She was pregnant before he even left for the games. He didn't know. She was so happy to be carrying his child, knowing that she would keep a piece of him with her, if he was lost. It never crossed her lighthearted mind that things would turn out as they did. My father came home a victor, and went to see her. She was eight months at that point. He was so happy that he proposed marriage to her on the spot. Her parents shooed him out of the house, none too happy about their young daughter's situation. They agreed to meet the next day to start planning.

She disappeared that night. As soon as I was born, they took me away from her, and no one ever heard from her again. They gave me to my father. I am lucky that they did that much. They could have disposed of me as easily as they did her.

My father was made to marry Catherine Coble, the mayor's daughter, and was instructed to procreate as soon as possible. He never could stand her and he never got over Elena. He tried to make a life, for me, I think. He spent seven years living with Catherine, deteriorating daily. He wasn't to work and couldn't leave the district except as a mentor during other hunger games. He was supposed to have a hobby. A fucking hobby! Yes, I can see it now. Brutus Black, bird watcher. Maybe it would be better if I don't come back.

After he had seen what was out there he couldn't deal with what was in here. He couldn't handle having attained all the glory and love he ever would in his life when he was only eighteen. He couldn't stand to live in the fake house the Capitol had forced on him with his fake wife, and his fake daughter, so he left. I assume he went to find Elena.

When I was seven he sat me down and told me he couldn't stay here anymore, that he was going on a great adventure. I started to pack my things. He said in a soft voice, "Clove, honey, what are you doing?" I had no idea what he was talking about and said, "Getting ready to go." I still remember the tears in his eyes when he told me I wasn't coming. The world rushed past me and I could hear roaring in my ears. I don't know where he wanted to go, all I know is that he never came back, and I never knew peace again until I found Cato.

My mother and sister acted upset for a while, maybe a month. Then they moved on with their lives. Catherine flirted up a storm with anyone and everyone. She was still young and beautiful and hoped to remarry. The Capitol told her that if she did remarry, the house, the clothes and the food would all be taken away. She never remarried, but flagrantly brought men home. People talked. Brutus had probably starved to death out there and she just… didn't care. I was mad at her. If she had had qualities beyond good looks and high-society charms maybe she could have kept him here. She didn't come from a line of victors, she came from a line of politicians: wealthy, corrupt, beguiling and handsome.

My life changed completely when my father left. I never got over it. I never moved on. From the day he left I dedicated every day of my life to living up to his glory. I would not live on what he earned for us. I would become my own hero.

I sit down in my chair with a confident, relaxed smile, reliving the rebirth that occurred for me after he left. My relaxation turns immediately to tension as I hear Catherine enter the room.

"Are you going to wear that? And oh god, please, do something with that awful hair." Catherine is lean, elegant and tall, with golden hair flowing down her back and an affected accent. She is an older, taller version of Clare. She looks at me disdainfully. She is dressed in a beautiful sky blue dress with an empire waistline that reaches to the floor. I look down at my toes, taking deep breaths.

"Yes, Catherine. I will be wearing my academy clothing. Being an academy graduate is something I can be proud of. Wearing something that I garnered from someone else's success is not." The truth is I do wish I had something nicer to wear. For the last eight years I've lived at the academy. There is no room for pretty at the academy and all I have that fits me are my uniforms: same gray, thick tights and faded blue tunics made of a material that was once high quality but has become rough and itchy from being worn and washed so much. It's hard to get the blood out of by rubbing the garments on a stone, but the punishment for showing up dirty is worse. The real trick is to not let your hands bleed when you're scrubbing at it with the caustic liquid, then you're really fucked.

Catherine rolls her eyes at me, not having heard my words in the slightest. "If I loaned you something it would just drag on the ground and get ruined. You're just so . . . short. You'll be able to buy your own pretty clothes if you win and then you can stop drooling over my things." She knows I'd like to look pretty, today of all days. Every girl gets dolled up, even the tomboys like me. It's expected. It will be hardly fitting for a future tribute to show up like this. What if they don't even let me volunteer? My heart starts to race at the prospect, but my ego wins out.

"No, I'll just wear this. But thank you for your loving generosity, Catherine. I would so hate to inconvenience you before I go to fight to the death," I remark in a sickly sweet voice, the sarcasm dripping.

"You're welcome, worthless," I wince at her pet name for me. "I kindly remind you that if you don't get chosen, you needn't come home at all. You're eighteen now, and I don't have to keep you. Maybe the academy will hire you to clean blood off the floors, if you're lucky." Catherine looks down her nose at me and turns away to walk crisply from the room, leaving a trail cold as ice behind her.

I sit in my chair, discontent growing. I stand up and walk over to the huge, gilded full-length mirror leaning against the wall next to me and eye myself, up and down, trying to be objective. I especially note the six -inch scar running from the top of my forehead, straight through my left eyebrow and ending just above and to the left of my lip. I feel good about myself when I'm training and running, when I'm strong. The academy doesn't have mirrors, probably for just this reason. My brain takes control of me, and starts laying on self-loathing thick as icing. It's like an evil voice in my head that is me, but isn't me. The voice begins tauntingly, "So short, such ugly, old, faded worn clothes, hair all messy. I hate this. I hate the way I look. So weak, so small and pathetic."

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. Cato is the only one who can pull me out of this, but he's not here and the anger and frustration are rising and bubbling, the heat like stomach acid rising at the back of my throat. I am losing control. "Fuck fuck FUCK," I scream out loud, my voice is instantly raw, not able to hold back the voice within my head any longer, "They want a good show, they're not going to pick you, Clove. You're fucking ugly. Who wants to watch the ugly, scarred girl, with old, worn clothes fight. Even if they pick me they'll kill me off quick just because they won't want to look at me. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this." I grab my hair near the scalp in my hands and pull and scream, closing my eyes. I look at the mirror again, "What the fuck is your problem!" I pull back my fist and punch the mirror, hard. It shatters into a thousand pieces, my reflection shattering with it. Lots of little pieces, shattered, none too detailed, almost beautiful in their abstractness. The tears are streaming down my face and I fall down to the ground and roll up in a ball, rocking myself back and forth, sobbing loudly. I know Catherine and Clare are far away in their turrets by now, they know enough to do that, at least.

The front door creaks opens and I can't even bother myself to see who it is. I hear steps coming down the hall, and seconds later I feel strong arms around me, holding me, rocking me and I know it is Cato. He is warm, safe and smells like pine trees. "It's okay, Clove. It's okay. Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. We'll be fine. We'll take care of each other, its okay. I won't go without you."

I get my sobbing under control and sniffle, "Really? You won't? But Cato, what would you do? What would we do?"

"We could get married, they would send us off as peacekeepers together, maybe. I don't know. But I won't go without you," he whispers into my ear. My heart drops through the floor. We've never talked about anything like this. This isn't real for us. It will never be. Of course he will go whether I can volunteer or not. He uncurls my body with his arms and legs and kisses the back of my neck.

"But if we are going to go we have to leave now. Come on, little imp." His voice is heavy. He sits up and I follow his lead. He stands and offers me his hand and I take it.

Catherine skips in to the room, "Oh Cato, darling, hello. I thought I heard someone," she kisses both of Cato's cheeks. "Don't you just look handsome for your reaping day, suit and silk tie and all!" she gives him her most dazzling smile.

"Why thank you, Catherine. And you are looking lovely as always," She blushes. I turn away, trying to ignore the spectacle, my own cheeks flushing. She always behaves this way around Cato. It makes me sick.

"You ready to go, kid?" Cato asks me.

"Yes, I have no need to stay in this house a moment longer. Come on, Cato." I shoot a spitfire glare at Catherine.

"Would you and Clare like to join us, Catherine?" Cato queries innocently.

"Oh we'll be along soon. I have to get Clare ready. She's going to look so beautiful in my green satin gown," she gives me a pointed and triumphant look.

"Come on Cato, let's go," I open the door and walk out, bringing Cato's hand with me. We walk into the warm, breezy sunlight down towards the river and I am free, but my mind is still locked in darkness. I walk in silence on the trail and keep my eyes on the ground, obviously aggravated. We follow the path around to the bridge closest to us.

"Are you thinking about your dad?" Cato asks me carefully. I shoot him a glare; it's my natural reaction to this topic. But this is Cato, he knows me enough to know that I am. Visiting that house usually has this effect on me.

"Yes. I keep thinking that maybe if I can make it into the games, maybe if I can win he will find me. He could still be out there, you know? Him, and Elena. It's a nice thought, them together, somewhere. For all I know he's living in the Capitol and having a grand old time and I'll see him tomorrow," I say the last sentence with bitterness and lay the sarcasm on.

"Clove…" Cato's voice trails off uneasily.

"I know it's not likely, Cato," I snap at him, "What's likely is that he starved to death in a ditch a month after he said goodbye. What's likely is that they slit my mother's throat and threw her body in a ditch. I'm sorry if I still hold on to a little hope." We walk on in silence for a few minutes: I, trying to calm myself down, Cato knowing not to provoke me further. He seems to get more irritated as we walk. "What are you thinking about?" I ask him eventually.

"My brothers. Do you know how much pressure it is to have three older brothers as victors? I'd a joke if I don't come home. A dead joke." We cross the bridge and enter the outskirts of town, rows upon rows of stone huts with thatch roofs, just like mine. The streets are just narrow dirt roads until we get closer to the center, where they turn into cobblestone. The buildings become more polished, and taller, almost blocking out the midday sunlight. There are people walking through the streets all around us, all making their way to the center square. We walk the rest of the way to the square in silence, not making eye contact with those around us. We are just outside of the square when Cato stops, sighs and turns to me, placing his hand on my cheek and brushing a stray lock of hair back from my face, "Good luck, kid."

"Good luck, Cato." My voice is strained and cracks when I say his name.

"Oh fuck it. Who am I kidding?" Cato shrugs, pulls me into the side alley and picks me up in a big bear hug and spins me around. "I won't go in there without you, Clove. Make it happen. Come with me. I need you by my side."

"I will. I'm with you. Together, we'll do it together," I manage to make the words sound stronger than I feel. He sets me down and leans in close to me, his hand under my chin, forcing me to look up at him, and he is looking me right in the eyes.

"Neither of us will die old in our beds having led a mediocre life, Clove. We will live and die as champions. We will be immortal. A few days together will mean more than a lifetime."

"Yes, Cato. I'm with you," I whisper.

"That's my girl," He kisses me on the cheek and walks back to the main street, to the square and his sign-in line, confident and feline. I watch him go and feel hollow. I lean back onto the wall of the shop behind me, and knock my head back against it on purpose. I can't feel hollow, not now. I mentally shake myself; take a deep breath and head toward the square, a cocky smile on my face, at first false, but swiftly genuine. The square has four sides, paths leading the rest of the town at each of the four corners. It is surrounded with shops and restaurants, all of which share a front façade, that generally have rows and rows of tables and chairs set out in front of them. They have all been put up for the occasion. The square is packed with people, and there is more than a buzz of excitement in the air. The noise from the crowd is almost deafening. There is a fountain in the middle, and some of the younger children are playing in it. It makes me smile.

At the far end of the massive square a stage has been erected on the steps of our capitol building, which serves as the center of government in District Two. Banners are hung that proudly read, "74th Hunger Games: District Two Reaping." It is something of an affair, the reaping in district two. It is the star district every year in the hunger games because there are so many volunteers that special procedures have to be followed. It is almost a prequel to the actual games. In front of the stage a large section has been roped off for potential tributes. Within the ropes the sides are divided into boys and girls and by age group. Between the stage and the tributes, another area has been roped off. Its use is not indicated, but I know well what it is for. I fight my way through the crowd to get to my sign-in area, not paying any attention to the people being jostled around me.

Both Cato and I have taken what is called a "tessara" every year since we were eligible to be in the reaping. In the poorer areas of District Two this can be construed as a punishment. In order to keep from starving your name gets thrown in for the reaping more times. At the academy taking tessarae is required and desirable. The more times your name is in the choosing the better the chance you will be able to be a tribute without having to compete for a volunteer slot. Plus, it makes it cheaper for the academy to feed us. Both Cato and myself have our names in forty-two times, the maximum. However, so do the two other girls and boys in our year at the academy.

Waiting. That's the hardest part. I wait in line with the other girls my age. We're roped off in the center with the rest of the potential tributes. The crowd presses in on us from behind. The others are practically shaking in their boots. Most of them are just girls, not academy. Few survive to graduate the academy. Some drop out, a shame to their families. They are cast out of their homes, left to beg or find work if they are lucky enough. Others die in battle within the academy. "Survival of the fittest," is the motto of District Two. My district has a long history of weeding out its weak links. Only the strongest are allowed to attend the academy, although some weaker students attend briefly. We call them fodder. They come crawling to the academy from the poorest parts of District Two, eager for three squares a day. Even if you live through the academy and get to compete at the games, the only diploma you get is coming home a champion or dying with glory.

There is little tolerance for weakness in district two. If one parent is not a victor, wealthy, or highly talented only one child is allowed them. Babies that are not born strong are not kept. Children that are weak at a young age are taken to the woods. If they make it back, they can stay and attend the academy. If not, it's an easy way to strengthen the gene pool.

Our mayor, Edward Coble, Catherine's father, is onstage, along with Enobaria and Erick, both former victors and current mentors. The victors in our town are well regarded, but the mentors are the real celebrities. It is a privilege to be a mentor, but the privilege is not easily won. We don't generally settle things in a very democratic fashion in District Two.

Elle Goodson, our capitol representative saunters across the stage, waving and smiling. She is tall, with short, platinum blond hair and is wearing a white skirt and blazer, with a white blouse underneath, looking sharp and pristine as usual. The clock at the city center strikes twelve times. It is time for the reaping to begin. The square becomes deadly silent and I swear I can hear a hundred cameras click on. My mouth dries. I am nervous. I scan the group across from me looking for Cato. I find him and we lock eyes. He gives me a slight nod. I nod back and swallow my fear.

Elle walks up to center stage and says in a demure, professional voice, "Welcome to the 74th annual hunger games. We will now begin the District Two Reaping." There is no nonsense on reaping day. They get right to the point.

"First, the ladies," I brace myself, hoping against hope she will just draw my name so we can be done with it. She crosses the stage and reaches into the glass ball with hundreds if not thousands of slips in it to pull out a single piece of paper. She walks back to the microphone at center stage and reads out the name in a calm voice.

And it's not me.


End file.
